


This One Old Street

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:51:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred and Arthur spend a slow Sunday day together, before Arthur is slotted to leave for London that evening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This One Old Street

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ December 31, 2010.
> 
> This is a fill for the usxuk secret santa exchange, as I was a pinch-hitter. The recipient for this is phox99, and the prompts were all pretty interesting and fun! I was really tempted to do the first prompt which involved comic books and shenanigans, but as I wasn't sure what my time would be, I ended up doing the second prompt "some tooth rotting USUK fluff." I'm not sure how tooth-rotting this ended up being, and if it isn't what the recipient had in mind, I am SO sorry.

**I.**  
The alarm blared.  
  
That hadn’t been how he’d wanted to wake up at all. Alfred groaned, loudly, and shoved his head under his pillow and groped blindly for the alarm clock to try to turn it off. He was on the wrong side of the bed, though, and after slapping his hand blindly against Arthur’s face, Arthur finally slapped the hand away and turned the alarm off with a huff himself.   
  
“Don’t hit me, idiot,” he muttered to the clock before shifting.  
  
Alfred mumbled something incoherent into the mattress, head still lodged under the pillow and trying valiantly to fall back asleep again. Arthur yawned and sat up, stretching and patting at his hair, already sensing there would be some kind of horrid bedhead to deal with. Alfred let out a snore and Arthur shifted, giving him a look somewhere between annoyance and amusement.   
  
“Why’s t’larm on anyway?” Alfred slurred with sleep and bed sheets.  
  
“Because I need to wake up,” Arthur said, “Obviously.”   
  
Alfred mumbled something into the bed sheets. Arthur rolled his eyes and leaned over, picking the pillow up off the boy’s face. Alfred gave him a sleepy glare as the bright morning light touched down to his fluttering eyelashes. The glare lacked any force, really, though, especially when Alfred yawned wide enough to pop his jaw a little and for Arthur to get a whiff of his horrid morning breath. Alfred yawned a few more times and yawns really were far too addictive, because soon enough Arthur was yawning, too.   
  
“See?” Alfred murmured. “Sleep more.”  
  
“I have work to do,” Arthur said, not quite sounding apologetic but about as apologetic as he got when it came to crushing Alfred’s early morning dreams.   
  
Alfred snorted. “Whaaa?”  
  
“You heard me,” Arthur said, primly. “I’ve neglected my work this entire trip and now I must—ah…”  
  
He trailed off as a wide yawn forced his jaw open. He covered it with his hand, feeling his eyes water from the force and length of the yawn. When he blinked to clear his vision, Alfred was staring up at him.  
  
“You’re on vacation,” he said.  
  
Arthur shrugged. “Maybe so, but even so, I must—”  
  
Alfred grabbed Arthur’s wrist and pulled him down. Arthur squawked in outrage, but Alfred ignored him in favor of snuggling up to him.   
  
“Five more minutes,” Alfred mumbled into Arthur’s chest.  
  
Arthur, refusing to admit defeat but slumping a little, lifted a hand to stroke the hair from Alfred’s forehead, stared at the young face there. There was a peaceful, calm little moment, when Alfred’s eyes fell shut and Arthur forgot the world. His heart clenched, and he had to look away. He made himself remember the world again.   
  
“As if you can afford to be so lazy,” Arthur said, because the words he really wanted to say got lodged in his throat, and he never was good with words like this in the first place. Poetry, he could handle. Official speeches, yes. But when it came to Alfred—no.   
  
Alfred kicked at Arthur’s shin, and Alfred really needed to cut his toenails. Arthur cringed a little.   
  
“Five more minutes,” Arthur finally relented, admitted his defeat.   
  
“… You aren’t actually going to time it, are you?” Alfred asked, opening his eye to stare up at him.  
  
Arthur stared back, and would have crossed his arms if Alfred wasn’t sprawled out against his chest the way he was. “You’re wasting precious seconds, my dear lad.”   
  
Alfred snapped his eyes shut again. Surprisingly, it only took about a minute before he sank down comfortably again, and snored softly. How lucky that the boy could sleep so peacefully and so quickly. Arthur almost envied him. But he’d kill Alfred if he started to drool on his chest.   
  
Arthur did watch the clock, though. Mostly because he really couldn’t afford to fall asleep. Alfred shifted slightly, sighing, and nuzzling his head into the hollow of Arthur’s shoulder, his dry lips pressed against his neck in a way that Arthur would have thought intentional if it wasn’t achingly obvious the idiot was already asleep again. Arthur sighed, and Alfred snored quietly, his warm breath damp in Arthur’s ear. Arthur almost let his eyes flutter shut, but he resisted.  
  
He glanced at the clock. Alfred’s breath feathered into his hair, and dovetailed over his jaw line.   
  
“My flight is today, you know,” he told Alfred’s slumbering face. “And this is how you want to spend it.”   
  
He snorted. Alfred was ridiculous. Though even with the boy asleep, Arthur could easily figure what Alfred’s comeback would be: Alfred wanted to relax; it was Arthur who wanted to do _work_ and _policy_ the last morning of their visit together.   
  
Alfred’s arm draped over Arthur’s waist, his breath peppering against Arthur’s neck. Arthur shifted slightly, and dipped his head to press his lips to Alfred’s temple, lingering there for a long moment before pulling away with a sigh. He was _doomed_ when it came to Alfred. And that was an eternal cause for concern somewhere in the back of Arthur’s heart. Lingering insecurities he never really liked to address.  
  
Alfred, meanwhile, dreamed. His overlarge body curved up to Arthur, seeking his warmth, shifting one leg to lie possessively across Arthur’s, pinning him to the bed. Arthur sighed, and closed his eyes, feeling himself sink against the mattress, warm underneath the familiar, comforting weight of Alfred’s body curled up to his.   
  
Five minutes came and went.  
  
  
  
 **II.**  
Arthur woke Alfred by shaking him awake. Alfred yawned, widely, and heard Arthur bitch quietly about horrid morning breath and lazy, fat slobs taking up all the warm blankets. Alfred blinked his eyes open and looked at the clock. He had no idea what time it’d been when he first woke up, so he couldn’t be sure if Arthur really had timed it down to the last second.  
  
“Five more minutes?” he asked again.  
  
Arthur narrowed his eyes at him, and shoved Alfred’s leg off of him. He looked as if he would roll away, and Alfred reached out, curling his fingers around Arthur’s wrist. The movement was jarring, awkward, and he felt disoriented from such an unspoken command. He found that, in these moments, despite knowing Arthur for centuries, he never really knew what to do. He was still adjusting, still growing used to the the fact that the Arthur who yelled at him and despised him, contested every word he said was different, and yet the same, from the Arthur who held him close at night, whispered embarrassing words and endearments into his ear, and looked away as he blushed over something Alfred had said.   
  
“No,” Arthur said, and tried to struggle away.  
  
Alfred held tight. “Oh, come on.”  
  
Arthur’s nose twitched—a nervous tick he did whenever he was resisting punching Alfred in the face. “I have work.”  
  
“I don’t care,” Alfred said, frowning. He tugged harder. “Come on.”   
  
“I am not coming on, stop that.” He struggled more. And his expression was quickly becoming something a bit more cross. “ _Alfred…_ ”  
  
“It’s Sunday,” Alfred whined. “It’s… against the law to do work here on a Sunday!”  
  
“It is not.”  
  
“It is now!” Alfred said, and finally demonstrated the superior strength he held against Arthur and tugged him almost painfully back onto the bed. Arthur relented, but not without looking sufficiently angry. “Hey, come on.”   
  
“Stop saying that,” Arthur snapped. “It’s annoying.”  
  
“You have like a twenty hour plane ride later to do all the work. Just…” He trailed off, the words heavy on his tongue, and he swallowed. “You know. Stay. Just a little while longer.”   
  
Arthur’s nose twitched again. “ _Bastard._ ”  
  
Alfred bit his lip, trying to resist the urge to smile, knowing deep down that he’d already won.  
  
Arthur rolled away, on his side, away from Alfred. “You always say things like that and make it impossible for me to—Fuck!” He sighed, loudly, angry through his teeth. “Fine. I’ll stay for a little longer.”  
  
The smile died before it could bloom across Alfred’s face. This hadn’t been what Alfred intended—Arthur facing away from him, curled into himself, and annoyed. Alfred never knew what it was, what about them that made it so they were always fighting. Something about vulnerability, Arthur had told him once. But Alfred hadn’t been listening closely enough and that’d only led to another fight.   
  
“Hey…” Alfred began.  
  
“ _What?_ ”  
  
“Are you really that angry?” Alfred said, and couldn’t stop the whine from filtering into his voice.  
  
Arthur’s body language didn’t shift at all—he kept his back to Alfred and his body curled. Arms folded over his knees, head ducked and away from Alfred.   
  
Alfred frowned. “I don’t—that wasn’t even a real fight.”  
  
He pushed up onto his knees, and squirmed close to Arthur. He peered over Arthur’s shoulder, trying to look at him and catch his eye. Arthur shifted a little, slanting his eyes up so that they locked.   
  
There was a long silence as they just looked at each other, Arthur’s brow furrowed and his lips quirked downward into a frown. Alfred didn’t breathe.   
  
Alfred used to always feel that the silence was bad, that he needed to fill in the silence with words lest their thoughts drifted down towards too much shared history, too many things that weighed them down. He would babble for hours, saying inane stuff and sometimes the wrong things—things that made Arthur shout or bolt.   
  
But now, it was easier to be silent, to let the silence envelop them. And it only took a few months, years, decades—it only took a little while before that silence was comfortable.  
  
This didn’t stop Alfred from saying dumb shit sometimes, though. It was just something that needed to be accepted about him, probably.   
  
Arthur finally closed his eyes and seemed to sag into the mattress. “If I don’t leave this bed now, I fear I won’t ever leave it.”   
  
Alfred’s expression jolted and shifted. Arthur’s face was red, and, slowly, he reached his arms up, blindly searching for Alfred. Alfred went to him, allowed Arthur to fold Alfred into his arms and tether him close, clinging to him like a buoy in the wayward waters around them. Alfred snuggled up to him, his body slotting up to Arthur just as it always did, his face pressing up against his collarbone, eyelashes breezing over the jut of a clavicle. He felt more than heard Arthur sigh.  
  
“Impossible,” Arthur whispered, and Alfred wasn’t quite sure if he’d meant Alfred or himself in that exhalation.  
  
And so Arthur indulged Alfred, lying with him for far longer than he ever intended. This time, Alfred didn’t fall back asleep. He stayed awake, letting his eyes trace the curves and juts of Arthur’s body, commit to memory what he’d already memorized so long ago. What he tried to memorize every time he knew Arthur would be gone for a long time, and their paths would not cross. Alfred’s fingers, broad and still boyish, callused and rough, traced down the lines of Arthur’s body, and the cuddling he never admitted he indulged in soon became the gentle strokes of memorization, knowing exactly where his fingers had to curl and dig before Arthur’s breath came out in hushed gasps.  
  
“Alfred,” he whispered, warning, his breath puffing into Alfred’s hair.  
  
Alfred laughed. “Right, right…”  
  
Arthur huffed out a soft breath, and shifted so that he was pressing up over Alfred, and leaning down to kiss his forehead. When Alfred tried to catch his lips with his own, Arthur pulled away.  
  
“Not with breath like that, Mister Jones,” he said, with a roll of his eyes.  
  
“Oh, as if you smell like roses,” Alfred protested.  
  
Arthur didn’t smile, but there was a touch of amusement to corner of his eyes, soft, gentle eyes despite the way he could be so biting. There were the creases that suggested the beginning of crow’s feet. The way the morning light flickered through the blinds left Alfred almost breathless, for one horrible moment—and he felt as if the weight of the world would crush him unless he actually _said something._ Alfred lifted his hand, and pushed the hair away from Arthur’s forehead, staying there, feeling the skin heat up underneath him.   
  
Arthur stared down at him, mystified. Alfred’s hand slanted down, cupped his cheek, thumb pressed against his cheekbone.   
  
“I…” Alfred began, feeling the heavy words lodged in the base of his throat. He tried the words. And then trailed off. He swallowed, his own face heating up. Suddenly too self-conscious to function, Arthur had to roll off Alfred, turn his face away so Alfred’s hand fell away. “Anyway,” Alfred said, quietly, for any way to break the silence—he couldn’t always let it ring out like that, unbearable. “You need to shave.”  
  
Alfred felt the mattress shift as Arthur sat up a little, hand brushing over his own cheek, undoubtedly feeling the scratchiness of the little black hairs peppering his face.   
  
Arthur sighed. “Yes…”   
  
It was far too hard to be honest, sometimes.   
  
Alfred looked up as Arthur shifted, muttering something about cleaning himself up and showering. Arthur glanced back over his shoulder and their eyes locked again. Their faces were still bright red—how could it be that even after all this time, they still managed to fumble when it came to actually speaking something worthwhile, something that with actual consequence, but all the importance in the world?   
  
“As much as you’ll scoff when I say this—”  
  
“Oh my,” Arthur interrupted.  
  
“—I’m going to go back to bed for a while,” Alfred said. And, indeed, Arthur scoffed. Alfred cracked a smile. “See? I can totally read you when I want to.”  
  
Arthur stayed silent for a moment, and then leaned over and kissed Alfred’s forehead and sitting up, scooting his body over to the edge of the bed, searching in vain for wherever his clothes were currently hiding.   
  
Alfred watched him, watched the slope of his shoulders, the curve of his neck, and way the sunlight feathered through his wiry hair. He saw the slightest curve of Arthur’s lips and felt his heart stop for one moment, so rare was such a sight.   
  
“Hey, are you smiling?” Alfred asked, despite himself.   
  
“No,” Arthur said calmly, his voice light, and pulled himself from bed.   
  
  
  
**III.**  
Alfred hadn’t intended to fall back asleep again, but undoubtedly that was what happened, because the next thing he knew, his face was pressed against a pillow and he could hear Arthur shuffling around the room. Alfred kept his eyes shut, listening to Arthur’s movements.   
  
The pleasant moment of just hearing Arthur was quickly interrupted, though, when Alfred felt a sharp tug on his ear. He gasped in pain as Arthur hauled him into a sitting position on the bed, leaning over the other nation and frowning.   
  
“Ow—hey!”   
  
“It is the afternoon,” Arthur said, with a frown. “I can no longer let you sleep like this.”  
  
“Aww, you didn’t want me to sleep through the time you’d have to leave?” Alfred asked, grinning. “Would you miss me so much?”   
  
Arthur scowled, his brows knitting together. He didn’t quite say anything, though it looked as if he might. He turned his eyes away for half a moment and Alfred saw his cheeks burn bright red before he whipped around and scooped up Alfred’s clothes and threw them straight at his face.   
  
Alfred laughed and when he pulled the clothes away, Arthur was standing there, arms crossed. “I,” he said, with a disdainful sniff, “won’t miss you at all.”   
  
He said it decisively, and with a furrowed brow he plucked up Alfred’s shirt and stepped forward, holding it open and slipping Alfred’s arms into the arm-holes, dressing him. There was something gentle about Arthur dressing him, intimate and uncertain—as if these moments were the only ones.   
  
But the words themselves made Alfred frown. Arthur looked away, cheeks vaguely pink. Alfred thought to himself that it had to be a lie, but he could never know absolutely for sure when it came to Arthur.   
  
Arthur cleared his throat. He finished the last button of Alfred’s shirt.   
  
“There.”  
  
Alfred looked down when Arthur’s fingers lingered and adjusted the collar.   
  
“Now you actually look sensible.”   
  
Alfred looked up again and their eyes locked. Alfred held onto his wrist, lightly, unable or unwilling to let go. Arthur frowned at him, but after a moment, his expression softened. He brushed his hand through Alfred’s hair before stepping back.   
  
“Come downstairs, fool.”   
  
  
  
**IV.**  
If Arthur thought he’d be getting any work done, he was a fool. Every time the work began, Alfred distracted him by shuffling around the room, throwing aside pillows or peeking behind the curtains, frowning.   
  
“What in the blazes are you doing?” Arthur, giving up, finally asked.   
  
“I’m searching for my phone,” Alfred said.  
  
“What?”  
  
“I lost it. I had it before. But I can’t remember where the heck I put it last night.” The boy continued walking around the room and even wandered into the kitchen to rattle along the pots. Arthur rolled his eyes and sighed, closing the folder of his work and knowing that he would get no work done.  
  
He wandered into the kitchen after Alfred and watched him continue to search.   
  
Then Alfred turned on him and said, “Call me.”  
  
Arthur raised one eyebrow.  
  
“Don’t give me that look. I can hear it if you call.”  
  
“Unless it’s dead or silenced,” Arthur said, but obeyed Alfred’s command and dug in his pocket, pulling out his cell phone. “You could always use your landline, of course.”  
  
“Whatever, just call me.”   
  
Arthur wasn’t listening to him and just dialed the speed-dial for Alfred’s phone number. He held the phone to his ear to make sure it was ringing and, sure enough, after a short moment the sound of a ringtone filled the air. The familiar strings of the Clash’s _London Calling_ filled Alfred’s living room and Alfred, with a wide grin and possibly flushed cheeks, dove into the room, following the sound.  
  
Arthur just stared at his back. “This is your ringtone?”  
  
“Only for when you call,” Alfred said over his shoulder, hurrying closer to wherever he thought the source of the sound was. As he got closer, however, Alfred’s voicemail clicked on and the ringtone stopped.   
  
Arthur hung up and called again and watched as Alfred dug around, throwing aside pillows and couch cushions.   
  
“Ha ha, here it is!” Alfred declared, plucking it from between two couch cushions. “It must have fallen out last night when you made m—”  
  
“Yes. Quite,” Arthur interrupted, face bright red. He hung up the phone and pocketed it. “The great mystery is solved.”   
  
Alfred pocked his phone with a grin, which Arthur ignored in favor of looking off at the wall, with a quiet _hmph._   
  
“Come over here,” Alfred announced, flopping onto the couch.   
  
Arthur deadpanned at him. “No. I have work.”  
  
“Whatever, take a break,” Alfred said, and did not plead, though the look he gave him was nothing short of puppy eyes. “Come oooon.”  
  
“… Only to stop you from whining,” Arthur announced with a sniff, and walked over towards him.  
  
  
  
 **V.**  
The afternoon passed slowly, until the time for Arthur to go to the airport approached. He’d given up on his work in favor of spending time with Alfred. Or, rather, Alfred refused to let him get up from the couch once he sat down beside him. In the end, though Arthur made a big fuss about it, he hadn’t been too devastated.   
  
But the hour approached, and slowly Arthur disentangled himself from Alfred with a small kiss to his forehead. He collected his things, adjusted his tie, and shrugged into his jacket. Alfred followed behind him without much direction, just following as if he were a lost duckling or child. He still smiled, but he seemed to realize that their time together was growing short, and it would still be many weeks before they saw one another again.   
  
He didn’t speak again until Arthur was at the door, lingering, frowning down at his bags and dreading stepping to his rented car and driving away with Alfred.   
  
“Hey,” Alfred said, and then trailed off a little awkwardly.   
  
“Yes?”   
  
“Hey… um,” Alfred said, and stumbled before he actually said the word _sorry_ , because even though there were many times when he could have or should have said it, it was a rare day when the word actually made it past his throat. He swallowed. “I know it probably wasn’t the best weekend. Cause we didn’t really… do anything. I know you hate to fly.”  
  
It was as apologetic as Alfred ever got, and it was always over stupid things. Arthur didn’t quite crack a smile, but instead reached up his hand, touching Alfred’s cheek. He stayed like that. Alfred’s cheek was warm, or perhaps Arthur’s hand was cold.   
  
Alfred blinked.  
  
And then he laughed. “Geez!” he said, laughing harder. “You are _such_ a sap. How can you make everything so damn sentimental, old man?”  
  
“Shut the fuck up!” Arthur shouted, and took his hand away from Alfred’s cheek only to cuff him on the ear. Alfred gasped out in pain and rubbed his own hand at his ear, pouting slightly. Arthur did not feel the least bit sorry for the bastard. He looked away, his cheeks red. “Ninny.”   
  
Alfred snorted a laugh. “Don’t get drunk on the flight or anything. I don’t want stupid drunk phone calls once you touch down.”   
  
Arthur snorted back, face still red and brows furrowing. He picked up his bags, slinging one over his shoulder, and opening the door. He walked out onto the porch and paused, looking over his shoulder at the shit-eating grin on the boy’s face. He frowned. “As if those little dollops could do anything. I was drinking excessively for _centuries_ before you were even a thought! Need I remind you—”  
  
“No,” Alfred said, a touch of a smile to his lips. “You really don’t have to remind me.”   
  
His grin was almost contagious, and so Arthur cracked another small smile, but made a great show of rolling his eyes afterward, and then scowling.   
  
Alfred paused. And then said, quietly, “Hey, I…”  
  
“Hm?” Arthur asked, when Alfred trailed off.   
  
“I… l—I’ve, um.” He looked away, his face bright red. He seemed to think better of whatever it was he was going to say, clearing his throat a few times. “Anyway.” Arthur stared at him in confusion. It was not often that Alfred stumbled or looked flustered, and it did capture his attention—much to Alfred’s chagrin. Alfred said again, “Anyway.” He looked anywhere but at Arthur. “Uh. Call me when you get in or something. If you’re not drunk, anyway.”   
  
“Ah…” Arthur couldn’t really speak, too stunned by the simple command, the not-confession buried beneath his words. All he could do was stand there on the porch, eyes wide, bag slung over his shoulder, and standing like an utter twit.   
  
“Say something already, you’re creepin’ me out,” Alfred muttered.  
  
Arthur rolled his eyes, but felt his expression soften. He stepped forward, lifting his hand to curl his fingers around Alfred’s chin, and lead him down to a kiss. He kissed him softly, felt Alfred’s fringes of hair brush against Arthur’s own. When he pulled away, their noses bumped and Arthur huffed.   
  
“I’ll call,” he promised.  
  
Alfred bit his lip, and leaned in to kiss the corner of Arthur’s mouth. Then he seemed to grow bashful again—how could he be bashful even now?—and looked away, clearing his throat.  
  
“Kay.”   
  
They lingered a moment longer, and with a small, remorseful sigh, Arthur stepped close again and cupped Alfred’s face, kissing him again and staying there. They stood together, pressed together, breathing together, on that porch for several minutes before, slowly, Arthur pulled away with a quiet assertion that he had to leave at once. Alfred kept him tethered there, kissed him one last time, whispering against his mouth all the words he never could work out to say. But Arthur heard them.   
  
  
  
**VI.**  
It was a long flight, one of the longest Arthur had ever experienced. When he landed in London, he had two voice messages from Alfred waiting. When Arthur called back, he berated the boy for his impatience.   
  
Alfred only laughed.


End file.
